


Butterflies

by Kitkatkimble



Series: The Tuesday Group (and Other Stories) [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, Pointless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4353905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkatkimble/pseuds/Kitkatkimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Wrathion is basically five. </p><p>That's it. That's the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterflies

“I have a question.”

Wrathion looks up, glancing at the little Skype video chat. Anduin was remarkably okay with being the only one on video.

“Yes?”

Anduin pauses, then says, “Why do you keep trying to make me flustered?”

Aha. Ahaha. Wrathion doesn’t have a good answer to that. Because Anduin’s blush is adorable? He can’t say that. That’s way too awkward.

“I enjoy riling you up,” he says as a compromise.

Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t dissuade Anduin. He shifts in his seat and leans forward, propping his chin on the ever-present textbooks. Wrathion wonders what he’s studying.

“But why?” He looks honestly put out, and Wrathion feels a bit bad for that. He genuinely likes Anduin.

“Ah…” He doesn’t know how to put words to it that aren’t cringe worthy.

They have been talking a lot, recently. Private chats when the others are distracted after raids, calls late at night, emails back and forth filled with references and recommendations and recollections. It’s been nice.

That’s the best word for it, really. ‘Nice’. Anduin is nice. Talking to him is nice. It’s all just… nice. Wrathion enjoys being friends with him.

“You’re nice,” he says, “and I am not. I enjoy drawing you out of your responsible, polite, shell.”

Anduin stares at the camera, then looks away with a silly little grin. Wrathion feels the same smile spread on his face, and is glad he hasn’t worked up the courage to use the webcam yet.

“You’re stupid.”

“I beg to differ.”

Anduin snickers and buries his head in his arms, and Wrathion feels giggly. He doesn’t _get_ giggly, he’s a grown ass person. He can’t say it isn’t a nice feeling, though.

“You’re so rude,” Wrathion goes on with a pout. “Calling me stupid. I study, I do my homework. I do other people’s homework, too; for a price.”

“I swear to God, you’re such a bird.” Anduin surfaces for air. “Going after all the shiny things. Don’t you ever get bored?”

“No.”

It’s not a lie. He doesn’t. His interests change, rarely and suddenly, but he doesn’t get bored.

Anduin’s laughing, a great, full-bodied thing that has him tipping his head back to rest on the textbooks again. Wrathion takes a sip of coffee and smiles in satisfaction.

“What time is it over there?” he asks.

“Two thirty.” His room is well lit, but Wrathion can see that the curtains are pulled across the window.

He hums, an acknowledgement more than a statement of opinion. “You should go to bed.”

Anduin shakes his head. “I’m fine. I probably couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Wrathion isn’t sure whether Anduin has insomnia or his sleep cycle is just fucked up. He’s a uni student. It’s pretty much a 50/50 chance.

“So,” Anduin says. He doesn’t continue. It’s a filler word to open up conversation, because for all Anduin’s confidence he can get hilariously awkward. Wrathion thinks it’s uncharacteristic and adorable.

Fuck, no he doesn’t. Adorable isn’t a word in his vocabulary.

Oh, who is he kidding. He’s disgustingly infatuated with Anduin. It’s honestly revolting how many butterflies are in his stomach.

He takes another drink of coffee, as if it will chase the butterflies away. Because they are his butterflies, and therefore rude as fuck, they stubbornly remain.

“So.”

Anduin smiles. “How’s life?”

“Good.”

“That’s good.”

They sit there, sharing a comfortable silence. Anduin’s reading something on his screen and still smiling. Wrathion watches him like the creep he is.

“Next time you’re in New York,” Wrathion blurts out, “you should come say hello.”

Anduin glances up to the camera. “I wouldn’t know who to look for.”

Whoomp, there it is. Anduin has no idea what he looks like. “Just follow the sound of magpies,” Wrathion deflects, laughter in his voice. “And look for the person with a hoard of shiny things.”

“I’ll be sure to.” Anduin means it. Anduin always means it. He is Earnest and Well Meaning.

It is, Wrathion admits, gross and unfair and repulsively adorable.

Fuck butterflies.


End file.
